


distracted

by ericaa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 04:52:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ericaa/pseuds/ericaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>then on his birthday he got a phonecall, and he was kind of drunk, because dean was always kind of drunk, whether on booze or adrenaline or nostalgia. it was a phone call that made him ache in a way he didn’t even know was possible.</p><p>-</p><p>dean's perspective. i'm kind of trying out this writing style, let me know what y'all think. ^ - ^ enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	distracted

there wasn’t a lot that dean was scared of.

whispered secrets and repressed confessions, taking hold and staying. staying in that warm spot just below his chest, that ached sometimes and fluttered others.

it felt colder when he wasn’t there, wasn’t next to him, breathing the same air and drinking the same beer. when sam was gone it was like that spot dimmed and quieted and hurt less, but left him feeling wired and empty – like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

stanford was a night his mind couldn’t bear to think about but his body refused to forget. like a part of him left that night and with it went reason and logic and the feeling in his fingertips. what was left was a peculiar numbness in his chest and in his gut which he took in stride, because that’s what winchesters do, they take it in stride, and he turned it into sex and rage and violence. maybe not a classy lifestyle but not a painful one, either.

a numb one.

then on his birthday he got a phonecall, and he was kind of drunk, because dean was always kind of drunk, whether on booze or adrenaline or nostalgia. it was a phone call that made him ache in a way he didn’t even know he could anymore.

at first it was quiet, hushed and muted and silent and heavy. it was too silent to be an accidental call, but he didn’t recognize the number either, and his paranoia meant he recognized most numbers. so he took the cue from the other end and stood outside the roudy bar without speaking, and it was a clear californian night and the stars were brighter than the moon. he found himself thinking about the stars and the moon and then what they meant and then _meaning_ , and then he felt something soft land in his eyelash and suddenly it was snowing.

“it’s snowing,” he whispered into the receiver, but he didn’t mean to whisper. he’d meant it to come out strong and loud and full of conviction, but the loudness felt crass on his tongue and before he knew it, his voice was soft and quiet and _whispering_.

he heard a ragged breath being drawn on the other end and he knew that ragged breath, because he knew each and every breath that boy had ever taken, and suddenly his heart was beating faster and the cars seemed to slow down and the snow seemed to speed up and then he was smiling and crying and laughing all in silence.

“sammy,” he said, and this time it was louder, but even more broken. he took a moment to realize how vulnerable he sounded, how pathetic, and then that moment caught up with him and he couldn’t care, because the voice wasn’t denying it, and it was sammy. the air in his lungs felt on fire and he bit his lip too hard. the blood tasted bitter but it tasted like _memories,_ and that’s what he wanted right now, the memories, so he welcomed it.

silence again. sam didn’t speak and dean didn’t expect him to. it was enough that he’d called, more than enough. dean felt the pain he’d suppressed for too long swim to his surface and suddenly he couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol talking but he opened his mouth to say, _sammy, my sammy, i lov_ –

but the voice spoke first and it was hoarse and rough and too familiar. it sent jolts of electricity right down to dean’s toes. “happy birthday,” it said, and he’d listened to those words all day but it was the first time he was really hearing them.

his laughter was choked and teary and tiny but _genuine_ , the first genuine laugh that had escaped his scarred lips in months, or maybe years, he couldn’t remember any more, because time had been nothing more than a number since sam left.

he wanted to say thank you but he couldn’t find the words, because thank you isn’t what he meant, what he meant was _i need you_.

what he meant was come home.


End file.
